The air in Betsukai Town had weight — you could feel it against your skin.
It was damp and cold, combined with the sour scent of fermenting silage, wet earth, and the distinct, musky warmth of thousands of large mammals in one location.
The Jeep traveled on gravel roads for two hours.
Amy sat in the back, shifting with each pothole, one hand holding the ceiling handle. Her face was pale, her glasses sliding down her nose.
"How much farther?"
"We have arrived."
Satsuki closed her bunkobon and looked out the window.
Forget pastoral imagery — wind through grass, cows and sheep on green hills.
What they saw was a plain gray concrete wall topped with barbed wire. A stainless steel plaque was mounted on the gate: Saionji Betsukai Farm.
No red-roofed farmhouse. No milkmaid in a dress. Not even a guard dog.
Only that oppressive smell, present the moment the car door opened.
"Cough."
Amy exited the car and began coughing. She placed a handkerchief over her face. Her glasses fogged immediately.
"What is that odor… it is strong."
"It is the smell of protein."
Satsuki stepped out, lambskin boots entering half-melted slush. She did not cover her nose. She inhaled deeply, as if evaluating a scent.
"Cough."
Her body reacted. A few breaths in and she coughed as well.
Amy, still masked, approached and patted her back, amused.
"Alright… no need to demonstrate. I understand. This is… the smell of fermenting revenue?"
Satsuki straightened, eyes watering from the cough.
"Correct. Who is in charge here? Hygiene standards are inadequate."
At that moment, the iron gates opened.
A tanned, middle-aged man in dark blue coveralls jogged toward them. Matsuda — the former owner. Two years earlier, the milk surplus crisis left him with debt to JA. Now he worked for the Saionji family.
"Young Mistress, welcome."
He removed his straw-flecked cap and held it in his hands. Facing an employer younger than his daughter, his smile was nervous.
For some reason, Satsuki's expression when she looked at him was unusual.
"Lead the way. Workshop No. 1."
Satsuki glanced at him, then turned and walked inside.
"I will address this with you later…"
Only Amy, beside her, heard the comment.
Amy looked at Matsuda with sympathy, but her attention shifted at Satsuki's terminology.
"Workshop?" Amy said, hurrying after her. "Do you mean cowshed?"
Matsuda led them into a large silver-gray steel building.
They passed through the heavy soundproof door, and heat moved over them.
Amy became silent.
This could not be called a cowshed.
It was an industrial floor with the sound of pumps.
At the center: a circular turntable over twenty meters in diameter. Motors operated. The platform rotated slowly with a consistent sound.
Dozens of large black-and-white Holsteins queued like passengers at a gate. One by one they stepped onto the turntable, lowered their heads into feed troughs, and positioned their hind legs.
A cow secured at a station.
Workers on the outer ring worked quickly — povidone-iodine spray guns and wipes in hand. Clean, disinfect, attach the silver milking cups.
Entire sequence: under fifteen seconds.
"This is a DeLaval rotary system from Sweden," Matsuda said.
"Sixty stations operating simultaneously. One rotation per cow, approximately eight minutes. When complete, the cups detach automatically and the cow exits."
He indicated the network of stainless pipes overhead.
"Milk moves directly into vacuum lines. Fully enclosed. Plate heat exchanger reduces it to 4°C immediately, then it is piped to the insulated tankers outside."
Amy looked up.
White liquid flowed through clear tubing, streams combining into one flow.
"Impressive," she said, adjusting her glasses. "It is more precise than our PCB line at the factory."
"It is precise."
Satsuki stood at the control room window, observing the continuous rotation.
"Meiji and Snow Brand have similar equipment. Larger than ours. If we competed on volume or cost alone, we would lose to those corporations."
"Then?" Amy asked.
"We do not sell 'industrial milk' blended from farms across Japan."
Satsuki drew a circle on the fogged glass with one finger, enclosing the ruminating cows below.
"Meiji's milk is pooled from producers nationwide. It is mixed in large tanks. Consistent, but generic."
She turned, back to the glass, eyes on Amy.
"Ours comes from only here. It is 'Single Origin.'"
"We will tell Tokyo housewives: this carton was milked from this pasture in Betsukai yesterday afternoon. No mixing in a tank with milk from other sources. No extended storage."
"'S-Farm Hokkaido Limited.' We will price it 20% above Meiji."
"Expensive?" Amy frowned. "Did you not say we wanted market share? Will people purchase it?"
"Because it is 'Hokkaido.'"
Satsuki's mouth curved with confidence.
"To Tokyo residents, 'Hokkaido' represents purity. If they can purchase that assurance — that 'direct-from-the-source freshness' — for a few dozen yen more, they will consider it acceptable. Or rather, we will ensure they consider it acceptable."
"So… affordable luxury?"
"Correct."
Satsuki snapped her fingers.
"Come to the back. I have a strategic product for the future 'Hokokuya' chain."
Past the milking hall, the smell changed. If the front was fermented lactose, the back was heavier — dense with testosterone.
The beef cattle area.
Pens of powerful animals. But they appeared different.
Not pure black Wagyu. Not black-and-white Holsteins either. Black coats, but with white faces or mottled patches. Stocky build, visible muscle, placid eyes.
"What breed is this?" Amy leaned in. "Similar to Wagyu, but not."
"Crossbreeds."
Satsuki answered directly.
She went to the railing, unconcerned by the dirt, and patted a cow's back. It turned, exhaled hot air, and attempted to lick her hand. She moved smoothly.
"F1. First-generation cross — Holstein dairy cow x Kuroge Wagyu."
Matsuda added: "Typically we inseminate Holsteins with declining milk yield using frozen Wagyu semen. Male calves are raised for beef."
"Why raise crossbreeds?" Amy asked. "Is pure Wagyu not more expensive? I saw A5 in Ginza — several thousand yen for 100 grams."
"Because we are not raising cattle for Ginza officials."
Satsuki scooped a handful of yellow-green feed from the trough. TMR — Total Mixed Ration. Corn, soybean meal, alfalfa, chopped and blended by machine. Sweet-sour odor.
"Pure Wagyu are high-maintenance. Massages. Beer. Mozart. Thirty months to market. That cost makes them products for the 1%."
She offered the feed to the F1. It ate quickly.
"But F1 is different. It has the dairy cow's growth rate and resilience, plus some Wagyu marbling. Industrial formula feed, scheduled feeding — market-ready in twenty months."
Satsuki cleaned her hands, then used a handkerchief to finish.
"Its meat has marbling. Not A5. But significantly better than dry imported Australian beef, and more tender than culled dairy cow."
She turned to Amy, testing her.
"Amy, what is your opinion on a Yoshinoya beef bowl?"
"Beef bowl?" Amy considered. "Inexpensive. Filling. But the meat is tough, requires sauce for flavor. And I heard it is frozen U.S. or Australian."
"If I open a chain called 'Hokokuya'…"
Satsuki's voice became casual.
"…all the beef is this F1 domestic. All the onions are sweet Tokachi onions we produce. Even the rice is Hokkaido rice."
"A hot bowl of tender, marbled domestic beef on rice."
She held up five fingers.
"Selling for 450 yen."
"Yoshinoya is 400. We are 50 yen more."
Amy visualized it.
One coin difference.
Dry imported meat versus tender domestic marbled beef.
And it is domestic. In Japan, that designation adds perceived value.
"If it were me…" Amy swallowed. "I would pay the extra 50. Domestic beef feels like a premium."
"Exactly."
Satsuki nodded.
"We are not trying to undercut Yoshinoya. In a weak economy, people have limited funds, but they want comfort more. 'Domestic premium' at fast-food prices — that psychological factor is Hokokuya's advantage."
She glanced at Matsuda.
"Mr. Matsuda, adjust the feed formula. I want fat deposition increased, even if it adds a month to market. If they observe marbling when it is sliced, Tokyo salarymen will consider that bowl worth a thousand yen."
"Yes, understood." Matsuda nodded, writing notes.
Outside the barn, the sky had darkened.
Hokkaido twilight is distinct — dramatic.
The sun cast deep purple-red across the horizon. Pastures became dark green under the afterglow. Distant snow peaks retained the last gold.
Satsuki stood at the fence, observing a landscape resembling a painting.
"So quiet here," Amy said.
"Yes."
Satsuki smoothed wind-displaced hair.
"Interesting, is it not? This quiet countryside produces Tokyo's strongest desires."
"Milk. Beef. Onions. Potatoes."
"They will travel our logistics network into that large city."
"And at midnight, they become hot milk for an exhausted office worker, or a bowl of beef rice that sustains someone."
She turned to Amy.
"Amy, do you not find it compelling? Using industrial efficiency to sell 'warmth' and 'the taste of home'."
Amy looked at her, adjusted her glasses, and gave a resigned smile.
"It all sounds analytical… but if you are executing it, Young Mistress, it probably will be compelling."
Wind moved through the pasture. Rustling.
In the distance, the herd walked toward the barn, low moos carrying.
The sound traveled across the open land.
Like a slow greeting from the North.